Ghost
by Auguste Larson
Summary: Grantaire died in 1987 and has since then been wandering around with little purpose and no passage to the afterlife. He falls in love with a living man called Enjolras and watches from afar. Everything changes when Enjolras nearly dies, being left with the ability to see the dead. Featuring psychic con Montparnasse and ghost Eponine in upcoming chapters.
1. Chapter 1

He'd died in '87 and from there wandered aimlessly amongst the living. There wasn't this bright light that absorbed him or some door that appeared just for him in the middle of a room or on a busy street (which he heard rumours from fellow ghosts about), so Grantaire was able to keep the belief that he lived by in life: there wasn't a god. There may have been an afterlife (something he'd always doubted the existence of), the sort where he was stuck on a plane that overlapped with that of the living's, but if there was a god, surely he would be in heaven or even hell.

The afterlife was nothing too special, the living couldn't see or hear him and too often did he wish that the dead couldn't see him either. Ghosts were jerks and a lot of them despised younger spirits. In his first years, he could hardly ask a question without being pushed away or just outright ignored. Older spirits reminded Grantaire of high school teachers: they heard and saw, but never really listened to what you had to say.. By the end of the '90's, he was just starting to be respected by some, but not all.

One of these ghosts that he befriended was called Joly and Grantaire wasn't sure if that was his birth name or some name that Joly had picked up. By social construct, ghosts weren't supposed to ask how the others died, but Grantaire learnt shortly into the friendship that Joly had been hypochondriac in life and often worried that he was dying from various illnesses. He'd been leaving a doctor's appointment and gotten into a car accident when the other driver ran a stop light. Joly added cheerfulness into Grantaire's life and made the other man more at peace with his situation. A natural cynic, Grantaire had withered away in death and resembled something of a corpse. Joly on the other hand had sprouted metaphorical wings from the entire experience and seemed enlightened.

Joly had learnt to forgive in his death and even had befriended the other driver from the accident that ended two lives. Bossuet, the other driver, was an unlucky man who had looked down at his phone when it had buzzed due to low battery, had run the traffic light without even knowing it. He died instantly as his compact car punched into Joly's Subaru. The two became very aware of each other after the crash, Joly having died before the ambulance came of a haemorrhage. Neither of them were very angry, something most ghosts were upon dying. Both had expected that their deaths would have been sooner and of either sickness or terrible luck.

They'd accepted the tragedy and moved on to their little afterlife on Earth. Most days, the two would go out and check up on their living relatives. Most of the ones who had died had moved on to some other afterlife that wasn't in this world, but Bossuet had an uncle who was also in this stage of the afterlife. He and Joly would chat with the uncle and then go off and check up on their parents, siblings and old friends. It wasn't like they could do much with the living, but it must have been nice for the dead to know that their families were okay.

Grantaire, on the other hand, didn't have family that he wanted to check up on much. He'd tell himself that there was a fat chance they even missed him and then he'd go on with his day. Towards the beginning of this second life, he would sneak into art galleries for free and spend days just wandering around. Then he spent time at parks and in all the best places he knew of. As time went on, Grantaire found that cafés were always the best as the scenery changed day to day. He could listen to the living and pretend that he was alive. It was in one of these cafés, a little place on Twelfth Street called the Musain, that Grantaire came across a group of people who would almost become history.


	2. Chapter 2

"Another round." Smitty mumbled, motioning to the bartender. Grantaire sighed, annoyed by the poor drunkard's choice. If Grantaire was to spend the rest of eternity watching drunks pass time in a dumb old bar, he at least wished that they could have better taste in what they used to poison their insides.

"You're miserable." Grantaire muttered, standing up as the shot of poitín passed through him. He had been sitting on the counter, finding it a good place to watch the faces of customers as their sobriety faded. Of course, the rebel in him also thrived on the fact that no living person could do such a thing without being tossed out of the bar. The masochist in him thrived on the fact that this perk proved him to be, in fact, dead.

Grantaire made his usual lap around the bar, watching the usuals as they ordered their usuals, smiling at the young couples, and laughing as college students tried their luck with bourbon. He then came upon a group of students, none of which seemed to be drinking, they had a few glasses of what Grantaire decided was water, and one of them - a fellow who was dressed, well, eccentrically with flowers all up in his hair and a sweater vest that hadn't been cool since forever, had a glass of red wine that was untouched.

The obvious leader of the group was who Grantaire noticed last, he'd been so fixated on all the little quirks that the group seemed to have. There was the obvious tough guy, the book worm, the artist, and the eccentric man that Grantaire decided was either a poet or a young man with a terrible sense of style. While Grantaire was inspecting this group of young men, two more arrived, the obvious ladies man (The way he treated the wait staff screamed it, but Grantaire sensed something sincere and kind about the man at the same time) and the socially awkward puppy.

It was only then that Grantaire looked towards the leader, and it was then that Grantaire found the god that he'd been so terribly uncertain of.


	3. Chapter 3

To be rather frank, Grantaire had few intentions of ever going to a rally with the Amis. The idea of being shoved around by a mass of people who couldn't even see him seemed discouraging. But, the passion that Enjolras had propelled Grantaire to the rally on one particular afternoon.

In the two months that Grantaire had quietly observed the Amis, he had found himself becoming more alert. It was like he was living again, in a way, he had things to look forward to. He loved to listen to the little arguments between the friends, to watch Barhorel and Feuilly arm wrestle, to hear poetry spout from the lips of Jehan, and most definitely the blunt certainty that filled Enjolras' speeches.

"He's like a god." Grantaire had told Joly and Bossuet on more than one occasion. The pair would often be found sitting in the back offices of a psychic's office by those days. They had met Musichetta, the psychic, and a bond had formed almost immediately.

"How strange it is to hear him talk of love." Joly would joke.

"Or of god." Bossuet would finish.

"I don't love him, I find him interesting." Grantaire would always defend. "Anyway, even if I did love him, I'm dead- and I'm old."

"Making excuses." One of them would laugh.

When the rally came around, something about lowering the price of college, a Grantaire found himself near the head of it. Of course, it wasn't like he did much for it, but the view was fantastic. He found himself a spot on the platform near Enjolras, and the way the crowd reacted to Enjolras blew Grantaire away.

"My friends," Enjolras began his speech by saying. His voice shook with power, and perhaps a nervous edge. As the speech followed, his voice became more confident and the crowd drew closer. When it ended, the crowd erupted and Enjolras fell into it, becoming a part of the sea of people that he loved so much. Grantaire couldn't help but smile.

Grantaire stayed on the platform for some time, watching as other speakers took stage. The joyous cheers of the crowds turned to screams of terror nearly an hour later. Grantaire didn't even hear the initial shots ring out, but as the crowd parted, he could hear them echo between the campus buildings.

Energy surged through the clearing, taking form in pure panic. Grantaire alone seemed to be immune to this panic, as though he were still trying to register what had happened. After moments - whether they be seconds or minutes- passed, Grantaire began to wander through what was left of the crowd. Many students had fled into dorm buildings and the student union, but perhaps fifty of them remained of the near 500. They churned around the area loosely, like ants.

A few smaller groups huddled together and Grantaire approached one. He pushed his way into the center, where there was a single body laying limp. The woman was tan, her glass eyes a vivid brown. She wore a loose shirt that had three small piercings in the chest. They oozed red.

"Oh my god..." A voice gasped behind Grantaire. He turned to face the source, surprised by the sudden outburst. He half expected a relative or friend of the dead girl, but rather it was the girl herself.

"Oh, god." Grantaire mumbled.


	4. Chapter 4

"Oh, god..." The girl kept saying, as she finally collapsed by her body. She did not weep, which Grantaire found impressive.

"Miss..." He mumbled, trying to gain her attention.

"Are you an angel?" She asked, looking up at him.

Grantaire couldn't help but laugh. "No... Dear, god."

Then he remembered. Enjolras - he'd been in the crowd. Grantaire stood up and tried to push through the crowd, finding another little ring of people. He pushed himself in towards the center and stumbled on top of a breathing body.

"Enjolras." Grantaire whispered. He looked around, as though someone would help. Everyone in the crowd stood back, their faces blank. They were willing to watch a man die rather than get their hands dirty.

"Do something!" He called, looking around at the blank faces. It was futile, Grantaire knew, none of them could hear him.

The ambulance arrived a few minutes later and Enjolras was whisked away. Grantaire boarded, taking a seat towards the front. He watched impatiently, as though he expected them to fix Enjolras on the ride there.

One of the medics, a boy called Combeferre by his team, managed to slow the bleeding. He seemed terribly calm, talking to Enjolras and asking for him to listen to his voice.

"Can you hear me?" He asked. "I need you to stay awake." There was a soothing essence to his voice, yet it also commanded.

When they got to the hospital, Enjolras was unloaded and Grantaire kept close to the cot. His mind became static, the memory of his own death too close to comfort. He had to take a step back, finding a bench on the far side of the hospital. Surely there would be surgery and Enjolras would make a speedy recovery. That had to happen, any other solution wouldn't be much of a solution at all.


	5. Chapter 5

Three days passed with no progress on Enjolras' condition. He'd gone through surgery fine - flatlining only once. Grantaire had felt his own soul fluctuate, then once more when Enjolras proved to be okay.

By day five, Enjolras was moved out of the ICU. He was given a room all to himself, partially, Grantaire thought, for the privacy, and partially because of all the cards, flowers, and stuffed animals that were being carted in. At all times, there was at least one security guard stationed outside the room to prevent unwanted people from entering.

Oh, how the media swarmed. They ate up the story of the peaceful student protesters who had been shot at, the daring leader who was in critical condition after taking a bullet right through the chest. Enjolras became the star of the local and national newspapers, his pretty face pasted nearly everywhere. In fact, there was almost no coverage about the actual shooter - or the girl who had died, or the five others mildly injured by gunfire.

On day eight, Enjolras awoke and the very moment that his blue eyes fluttered open, Grantaire knew something was wrong. Usually Enjolras would have looked past Grantaire or through him, never properly seeing the other man. But, with all the pillows that had been propping Enjolras' head up, the man had clear sight of Grantaire.

"Where am I?" Enjolras asked, trying to look around. His eyes turned bitter at the sight of all the brightly colored gifts. "What happened?"

Grantaire approached the bed, sitting towards Enjolras' feet. He couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe... No, what was Grantaire thinking?

"Can you hear me?" Enjolras asked, his voice cool.

"You're talking to me?" Grantaire asked.

"Of course. Who else would I be talking to?"

"And you can see me?" Grantaire stood up excitedly, his image fading some before replanting itself.

"Are you a nurse here?"

"No."

"I'd suggest leaving, then."

"But you can see me."

"What are you playing at?"

"I'm just surprised, that's all. My name is Grantaire."

"Enjolras."

"It's lovely to finally meet you."

"Finally?"

"I attend your rallies, and a few meetings."

"Ah."


	6. Chapter 6

The pair grew fond of each other in the following days and Enjolras was thankful for the company, even if Grantaire seemed to always vanish the moment a nurse appeared.

"I'm squeamish around blood." Grantaire would say, flashing a grin. Enjolras didn't ask many questions, he couldn't imagine that his wound was something that people were lining up at the door to see.

Yet, Grantaire stayed. He listened to Enjolras droll on for hours about politics, and human rights, and social rights, and how all of it was merged together in some way. Grantaire had never given much thought to such a thing. He wasn't even sure if he'd ever registered to vote when he was alive, if he had, he'd never put it to any use.

On the fifth day after the shooting, Enjolras slept blissfully while Grantaire watched over him with a careful eye. More than anything, Grantaire wished that he had a piece of paper and a tangible hand so that he could draw the sleeping boy.

"Julien!" Near eight o'clock that night, a large man burst into the room, followed by an anxious nurse.

"Sir," the nurse attempted to restrain him with her words. "You can't simply burst in-"

"I'm his father." The man looked upon Enjolras with little affection, only dark eyes which seemed to shame the boy. Grantaire decided quickly that he didn't like Enjolras' father, he seemed too much alike the classic rich villain, with an ugly face, suit, and large mustache.

"Leave him." Enjolras told the nurse. He'd awoken with a look of shock which had quickly turned to disgust. "It took you long enough to come see if I had survived."

"Don't act that way, Julien."

"It's the truth! I'm shot and you can hardly call."

"I was on a business trip."

"Really?"

"I don't understand why every visit must be an argument."

"You should go."

"I came to give you company, I'm sure being stuck here is killing you... You were always like me in that way..."

"The bullet did a fair enough job with that, and I have company."

"That friend of your's? What's his name - Comb- er..."

"Combeferre."

"Yes."

"No, they won't let him in because he isn't related. You should really meet Grantaire, though... It seems he's left because of the disruption."

"Grantaire? Another political groupie?"

"They're my friends, Henry."

"I shouldn't have come. I'll be going."

"I'll see you for Christmas."

"Yes, I'll tell your sisters and mother that you said hello."

"Thank you."

Enjolras' father talked to the side with a nurse, his voice particularly low. Occasionally, he glanced towards his son's room, as though the boy would manifest in the doorway.

"My son, he says that there's a boy who visits him." Henry said.

"No, that room is strictly off limits." The nurse confirmed, checking some papers.

"A man called Grantaire... I don't know if it's my place, but is he a patient here?"

"There's no boy here who visits, Mister... Mr. Enjolras."

"I'd like it checked into, nonetheless."

"Of course, sir."

**I must thank you all for bearing with me - I haven't updated this story in what seems to be forever. But, here's the latest chapter. **

** In other news, I have a new user name, but it is still the same author. Thank you for reading, and please review if you are so obliged so that I can know where you'd like the story to go!**


	7. Chapter 7

The sixth day was spent apart, Grantaire finally leaving Enjolras' side for more than a few minutes. Enjolras was moved out of the ICU and his living friends could visit. Grantaire watched from outside the window, leaning against the nurse's station, before finally departing. Enjolras looked so happy to be surrounded the people who'd always been at the bar with him. The eccentric one brought a large plant, the bookish one brought Enjolras' backpack.

Grantaire travelled to the park where he'd often visit Bossuet and Joly. The man sat waiting on a bench for what seemed like hours, watching families picnic and children play. It was about midday that Grantaire found himself displaced from that bench when a rather large couple came to take their lunch break there.

The couple looked so happy, their gazes catching each other and smiles erupting. Grantaire felt so helplessly alone, terribly aware that he could never have that with anyone - partly because he was dead, partly because he'd never had anything so intimate in his entire life (and death).

Sure, he'd had pages of physically intimate lovers over the years, most of whom couldn't even be bothered to go to his funeral and pay their respects. But, never had he been with someone who deeply cared for him in the way that this couple cared for each other.

"This sucks." He told the couple, except they didn't seem to hear him.


	8. Chapter 8

The eighth day was spent away from Enjolras. As was the ninth, and the tenth, and then the next month passed by without Grantaire even realizing it. He frequented a new bar, one that had recently opened and was a great deal cleaner than the previous one that Grantaire had liked. He wasn't sure if he could ever go back.

You see, during the month that had passed without notice, it was as though a dam had broken within Grantaire. He crumbled into himself, flooded with emotions. What worth did he have anymore? Why was he stuck in a way that few seemed to be? Why didn't he have some other half to complete him - the way Joly had Bossuet, the way that Enjolras had his politics.

It was a cold day, the type of day that came and went as autumn faded and winter began to grow. Grantaire had been resting under a large tree by the University. The tree reminded Grantaire of something distant, some memory he'd discarded from life. He couldn't place it, despite having sat by it occasionally throughout the years.

"Grantaire!" A familiar voice called to him, and Grantaire opened his eyes to find a shadow over him. "I was starting to think that I'd imagined you."

"You can see me still?" Grantaire squinted at him, he'd been certain that once Enjolras had healed that he'd stop being able to see Grantaire.

"What? Are you high?" Enjolras asked, sitting down beside him.

"No, I'm just tired. How long have you been out of the hospital?"

"A couple weeks. They said I made a great recovery."

"I'm sure... And you're back at school?"

"Yeah, I've only got a couple credits to get out of the way before graduation. There's no reason to keep putting it off - just an art and science."

"Who do you have for a professor for art?"

"Smith - some painting class."

"Ah, he's a jerk."

"I never asked, but do you go here?"

"I did."

"You graduated?"

"Dropped out, you could say."

"You were kicked out?"

"No, I was an art student. Wasn't really my thing."

"Why were you studying art, then?"

"No, I liked the art, it was the whole student thing that wasn't my gig. I preferred the parties, to be honest."

"Ah." And that was that.

**Have a wonderful holiday!**


	9. Chapter 9

Enjolras always arrived early to class, even if he had little intention of enjoying the said class. He would usually be able to get into his seat early and study, which was an added bonus for the teachers who liked to give pop quizzes.

It turned out that not all teachers were even present in the building a half hour before class started and Enjolras was left to wander, unsure if he wanted to sit down on the dirty floor.

The art building was rather large, despite being one of the oldest buildings on campus. Enjolras was amazed by the art that was left hanging from years of past students. If he'd known anything about art, he'd say that the art was quite good. The pencil and charcoal drawings were quite realistic, and the paintings of people and landscapes were stunning.

As he wandered down the hall, Enjolras saw a large canvas painting. It was of two figures, their hands together. It looked as though there were flames around them, or entire stacks of gold. The eyes of the figures haunted Enjolras, who tried to imagine why on earth the people would be so sad.

"It wasn't even that good." A voice said behind him. Enjolras turned, finding an old man.

"I'm sorry?"

"He'd been such a good artist, and that semester... Well, I don't know what happened to him. He just couldn't paint. This was the only thing finished in the shop when we were clearing out his things. It doesn't speak to him as an artist."

"Who?"

"Richard... Er, uh, Richard Grantaire."

"Grantaire?" Enjolras was perplexed. That couldn't be his Grantaire, well not his, but the Grantaire he knew. No, of course, the plaque said 1987... "Did he have a son or brother who went here?"

"No, he's the only one. He was a scholarship kid, out of the New York streets... You know, those schools we go to for raw talent, well, he was one of the best I'd ever seen."

"I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Lennon Smith, I'm one of the professors here." The man held out his hand.

"I have a, uh, I have a class with you today. Intro to Drawing or something. I can't make it, I'm sorry. I have to go." Enjolras adjusted his bag before turning to run down the hall.

"You're early." Smith called after him.

"I know, I just need to go talk to someone."


End file.
